


Imagine: An impromptu angelic make out session on the bunker’s map room table with Castiel.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [49]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:11:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: An impromptu angelic make out session on the bunker’s map room table with Castiel.

Congregated around the graphic-lit design of the map room table, Sam and Dean’s strategizing about the current case - one concerning _dinner_ plans which evidently exists as a high stakes life or death scenario judging by Dean’s grousing tone when Sam brings up the slippery subject of burger _grease_ \- coalesces in Castiel’s perception as a buzzed murmur.

The magnitude of angel’s attention fixes on your face - your right cheek to be exact, the plump smile-dimpled feature barred to him as you peer up from perusing the pages of a book to watch the brothers escalating argument. He notices with particularly titillating interest - a curious static excitement prickling the outer surface of his vessel - the way the golden light of the room shines its soft warmth upon your skin, reflects in amplified vibrancy of amusement in your eyes, and highlights the silken pink peaks of your lips where your tongue emerged a moment ago to wet the tempting shell in suppression of a laugh.

In so far as an angel possess the ability to imagine, he imagines the impress of a kiss placed there; _his_ kiss - an acquiescent release of the electric charge of physical attraction penetrating to his celestial heart fervent for an outlet to ground itself. His lips press together in temptation of thought; he can almost taste your sweetness.

“Cas,” you breathe his name, repeating it in a gentle - somehow melodic in the utterance of a single syllable to his ears - tone when he doesn’t react, “ _Cas_.”

His lashes widen at the realization that in his distraction your gaze shifted and the charming curve of your smile, parted around the exhalation of his name, bends on his blushing aspect. Glancing sideways to shield his shy desire, he sees Sam and Dean have not only quieted, they are gone.

“They decided on _Sal’s Birdland_.” You follow his averted regard to the empty seats.

Clearing the nerves thickening his throat, Cas looks down at the hands clenched in his lap. He flexes the fingers, wiping the strangely sweaty palms on his pants. The action both redirects his abashedly shaken senses and tingles the friction starved flesh below the fabric. If he’s not mistaken - and contrary to what the Winchesters and he himself may believe, while his methods may frequently be flawed, his reasoning rarely is - the aforementioned dining establishment stands two counties over. “That seems … _far_. To travel for dinner, that is.” He mumbles the gravelly observation at the floor.

The sound of the book tossed on the table, its weight clapping sharp on the glass when it settles, lifts the angel’s furtive focus to you.

“It was my suggestion.” You smirk around the statement. 

Confusion narrows his lids, an unspoken question of why you stayed behind if you suggested the location swirls within his blues.

Arching a brow, you add, “I figured we could both use a break from those boys.”

Time off in the so-called Winchester brand family business is rare; time alone with you, more precious than anything in the angel’s estimation. “Oh, I-I see.” He gulps a re-flux of gratitude for the unanticipated opportunity he has no idea how to take advantage of, or whether he _should_.

It’s your turn to lower your eyes. You wonder if he does _see_ ; if _you_ see what you think - what you _hope_ \- you see, too. Castiel lacks the skill of subtlety to mask a growing fondness for you; you feel part of it has to do with him not understanding fully why he feels as he does and how to respond to the newfound emotion. The intense sessions of staring were your first tip-off; his total absence of composure at times such as this, seemingly confirmation enough. 

You wonder if, with his angelically heightened aptitude, he recognizes what he does to you - the skipped heartbeats, the flickers of fire in your belly, the storm he churns beneath the outer show of sangfroid you maintain - for what it is. You pick at the white threads framing a patch of frayed denim at the knee of your jeans. “Looks like we’ve, uh, got the place to ourselves then for a few hours.”

Although the hair at his nape thrills at your words, a numb neutrality rasps his agreement as doubt secures him motionless to his seat. “Yes, I suppose we do.” A lot can happen in a few hours. The possibilities muddle his mind, paralyzing him.

The silence and stillness between you extends too long. You stand, and twist away from the table without looking at him lest he perceive the disappointment dampening your expression.

A lightning bolt of courage strikes him to action at the threat of your retreat. “Y/N, wait!” His voice reverberates thunder. Rising to follow, reaching out, he clasps at your arm to halt the momentum of escape and moves to block the path to the exit. 

Pure instinct instructs you to flatten a hand defensively to his chest; and yet, relishing the heat of his skin where it wraps your wrist, you do not protest the contact. His lungs expand in a bracing sigh beneath your palm. You’ve touched before, even more intimately than this within the bounds of friendship - a hug here, a healing wash of grace there - but there’s something _more_ burdening this embrace. 

You both balance at the brink, poised over a precipice so deep you know once you leap into it there’s no saving either of you.

For a few unrelenting seconds he studies where strong fingers lightly encircle the delicate bones of your wrist; pleasant surprise and deep affection dance in the dark dilation of his pupils when he meets your eyes. Sparks of flame ignite in your stomach as he cases his arms around your waist and gathers your limply pliant form to him; dipping his head, he brushes trembling lips cautiously to test the corner of your mouth for consent.

Knotting your fists in his trench coat to yank him harder against you in yearning, you tilt your chin to banish the hesitancy of his kiss.

A low growl rumbles in his throat; urgent need to express to you a depth of emotion felt and so far unsaid overwhelms him. His hands, and grace, and wings unfurl to shroud every inch of you. 

Stumbling, fumbling with fabric, seeking the friction of skin on skin, a symphony of sighs, soft groans, and gasps between fervid kisses echoing in the expansive room, you fall back against the map table in a whirlwind cushion of black feathers with the welcome weight of the angel braced over you dizzily testing the limits of your breath and body with his devotion.


End file.
